RWD: 5.x (Intermission)(Taylor Pt 2)

Outside, I checked the map. North building meant the longer bar of the H. I found the connecting corridor, then the stairs. Students moved

5.x (Intermission)(Taylor Pt 2)

Outside, I checked the map. North building meant the longer bar of the H. I found the connecting corridor, then the stairs. Students moved in flows, currents established by habit and bell schedules. No phones in hands. More eye contact than I was used to, but it wasn’t the predatory kind. Assessment, curiosity, then disinterest. A couple of faces lingered on me a beat too long and then pretended they hadn’t. I exhaled again.

I reached the second floor and followed room numbers to 214. The door had a little name placard:  Leclair. Other students were trickling in, taking seats, opening notebooks. The clock on the wall said I had two minutes.

I stepped inside. Conversations dipped the way they always do with a newcomer, then recovered, adjusted. Ms. Leclair was in her thirties wearing a cardigan over a dress, dark hair pulled back, glasses with thin frames that made her look more severe than she probably was. She was talking to a student at her desk when she saw me enter. “You must be Taylor,” she said without missing a beat. “Welcome. Class, we have a new student joining us today.”

“Hi,” I said, hesitantly waving at the class. Surprisingly, a few students waved back.

“Taylor, grab any open seat,” she said. “We’ll do quick introductions after roll.”

I scanned. Back row had two openings, one near the window and one nearer the wall. I took the wall. Habit. I liked angles. I slid into the chair and set the folder on the desk, hands on the cover to keep them from fidgeting. The heavy paper was warm from my fingers by the time the bell rang.

“Hey.”

I turned to see a girl sitting next to me. She was dorky-looking, with frizzy brown hair, thick framed glasses and a cardigan that looked like it had been knitted by a well-meaning aunt. For some reason, she was looking at me with something bordering on a mix of curiosity and awe.

“Um,” she whispered, conspiratorial. “Are you—sorry—are you the girl from the video?”

I blinked. “What video?”

She winced at herself, then rallied. “The Winslow one. With the bullies.  It was everywhere for a while. I mean—sorry, I forgot. Introductions. I’m Lily.” She stuck out a hand, realized midway through that this was a weird angle for handshakes, withdrew, then extended it again anyway with a face that said she was committed now. Earnest to a fault.

I looked at her hand, at her face, at the vein of attention that had just shifted our way in three nearby seats. I took the hand. Warm, a little balmy. “Taylor,” I said.

Her eyes widened by a fraction. “I knew it,” she said, a bit too fast. “I mean—not knew, but, like, I hoped? I watched it and I was just—ugh. People suck. I’m glad you got out. I was kinda rooting for you? Glad to know you came out ahead.”

I blinked. Came out ahead. That was a strange phrase for it. I’d survived. Greg had been the one to rip the the paint off a rotten wall. To say I came out ahead implied… I don’t know. That I’d played a game and won, instead of crawling out of a pit because someone else lowered a rope.

“I didn’t really do anything,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It was Greg.”

Her eyes lit at the name. “Your boyfriend?”

“What?” Too sharp. A couple more people in front glanced back. I forced my voice down. “No. Not my boyfriend.”

“But—he was defending you in the video. That’s what everyone in the comments said. Like, everyone. I figured you just didn’t want to make it public.”

I opened my mouth, closed it again. Friend was the obvious answer, except “friend” didn’t work when the other person was also your boss, your co-conspirator, the person holding half of your secrets and a disturbingly large share of the city’s underworld in one hand. It didn’t cover the way he could make me feel both safer and more terrified in the same conversation. Only then did I realise how weird my relationship with Greg was.

“I…” The word died halfway out.

Lily’s head tilted, like she’d just confirmed something. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.” She hesitated, then tried for casual. “So is he transferring here too?”

I didn’t get the chance to answer. Ms. Leclair stopped mid-sentence, turned her head, and looked at us over the rim of her glasses. Not angry, just very pointed. A couple of giggles from the back. Lily’s face went crimson and she buried herself in her book. I did the same.

The rest of the period went smoothly. Quiet reading, discussion, the clock’s slow crawl. When the bell rang, Lily was already half out of her seat. She waited by the door, though, bouncing on her heels.

“Come on,” she said. “Cafeteria’s this way. You don’t want to get stuck with the leftovers.”

###

Arcadia’s cafeteria was bigger than Winslow’s, cleaner, with more glass. Noise filled the space, but it was an organized noise—like a hundred different conversations all tacitly agreeing to stay in their own lanes.

Lily played tour guide, pointing out the coffee kiosk, the microwave line, the table where the theater kids camped out. She grabbed a tray for each of us and walked me through the options. We both ended up with sandwiches and fruit, hers an apple, mine an orange.

We’d just turned to look for a table when the flow of students in front of us bent around someone, the way water bends around a stone. The someone was tall, platinum blonde, and unmistakable even in civilian clothes. Victoria Dallon. Glory Girl.

Two steps behind her was a shorter girl with frizzy brown hair, freckles scattered so thick they looked like they’d been painted on. Panacea. Amy Dallon. Behind them, a few other girls who fit easily into the category of friends who orbited the most popular person in the room.

Victoria’s gaze found me. Not a casual sweep of the room—direct, focused. Amy’s eyes followed hers. The rest of the group paused, like they were giving her space to do whatever this was.

For half a second my stomach dropped. Do they know? My mask, my other life, the people I worked with—all of it flashed through my head like a deck of cards. If they said my name with the wrong weight in the middle of this cafeteria…

“Hey,” Victoria said. “You’re the girl from the video, right?”

I managed not to flinch. “Yeah,” I said slowly. Hesitantly. 

She nodded once. “I’m Victoria. This is my sister, Amy.” She didn’t use their cape names, which I took as a good sign. “I heard what happened at Winlsow,” she continued. “If you have any problems here—anything like what happened last time—you come to me. I don’t put up with that crap in my school.”

It was phrased like a rule, not an offer. I thought about Howell saying almost the same thing, but with the weight of the administration behind it. This was different—less official, more I will personally pick someone up by the collar. And given Victoria’s reputation online, she probably meant it.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

She studied me for a beat, then seemed satisfied. “Good. See you around.” She and her group moved on, the noise of the cafeteria folding back over the space they’d occupied.

Lily made a small, strangled noise. “That was Victoria Dallon. Glory Girl. Talking to you. Like, you.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“That was amazing.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I found the cape a little scary. Instead, I just nodded. “Yeah,” I said, and the word felt hollow. We found a table. Lily kept glancing at me like she was sitting with a celebrity. I peeled my orange, piece by piece, trying to focus on the mundane rhythm of lunch. New school. New schedule. New eyes on me. If I was lucky, that would be the most unusual thing to happen today.

I’d had enough excitement in one hour to last me the whole day.